It is time for the answers to be revealed. At last you will know the truth! And the lie! You won't care, but you will know! And knowing is half the battle. Shut up, srah, and just tell them the answers already.

Most people recognized that story #2 (College Jeopardy) was true. That's because this story sucked. I do appreciate that you were so willing to believe that I couldn't come up with anything interesting to say about myself, though. I'm going to go cry in a corner, even though it is true. The other 'story' I came up with was about how we used to eat a lot of cheese in high school, so I guess you can feel blessed that I didn't make you read that one. It was really crap, as opposed to this one, which I consider only mostly crap. Yawn.

Although a popular choice, story #3 (the p0rn theatre) is true. They do have p0rn theatres in France and this one was right on the corner with a real cinema down the alleyway. Going to this one didn't have anything to do with my French skills, so much as my lack of observational skills. The big red X, as I said, should have given it away. But hey, we were looking for a theatre and we found one! I was surprised to search my archives and discover that I hadn't told that story.

Story #1 (the trip to England), therefore, is... not entirely true. This is why I said you were going to hate me when I told you the answer. Everything in the story is true except one detail: I danced on the high altar at Winchester Cathedral and not Salisbury. Sneaky wench.

Correct guessers: Kim, Dae, Jez, Patricia, otto, granni39, Jen, gish, windy and Heather.

Thanks for guessing! I look forward to doing it again sometime.

Here are my three stories. Two are true and one is false. I will warn you that I have a reputation for being quite good at this sort of thing, although when I've done it as an icebreaker it's usually a factoid rather than a story.

You may pick which you think is the true FALSE (oops - forgot to change that when I changed from 2F/1T to 2T/1F) story, leaving your guess in the comments. If you'd like, I'd also be interested to know why you think one or the other is true or false. On Monday I'll post the correct response.

Eligibility: My family and close friends may guess as long as they don't influence anyone else's guess by announcing that they know for sure which is the correct answer. If you sound like you're not quite sure, but you think it might be #X, I probably won't have to kill you. But don't all agree or anything. If you would like me to know that you know but don't want to ruin it for everyone else, you may whisper it quietly in my ear or email me.

Story #1: My parents and I went to England in 1982 and I ended up spending my second birthday there. We were there for a wedding, but we also used the trip as a chance for my dad to familiarise his wife and young daughter with his mother's native country (which he had often visited growing up). Sometimes I think they would have preferred to leave the daughter at home, although she did provide them with some interesting stories.

We went to the Tower of London and I was not very interested in the tour. I was, however, quite interested in the ravens.

"LOOK, DADDY," I exclaimed, "BIG BLACK BIRDS. WHAT ARE THE BIG BLACK BIRDS DOING HERE, DADDY? WHY AREN'T THE BIG BLACK BIRDS FLYING AWAY, DADDY?" Apparently I was loud and annoying enough that the beefeater actually stopped his speech and walked over to me.

"Do you know," he said, bending over me and trying to exude an air of authority and respectability as I grinned up at him, "what we do to little American girls who can't be quiet and listen to the nice beefeater's talk?" I shook my head, still smiling and not realizing I was doing anything wrong by asking my dad about those fascinating birds. The beefeater continued: "We CUT OFF THEIR HEADS!"

My eyes widened at the death threat. I went and hid behind my mother and apparently didn't speak another word for the rest of the day.

Another of our tourist excursions was to Salisbury Cathedral, which was undergoing some construction restoration. As my parents listened politely to the tour guide and observed the beauty of the cathedral, little srah got antsy again and squirmed away. When they caught up with me, I had ducked under some construction tape and barriers and was dancing on the high altar. My mother didn't want to cross the barrier herself, so she had to call to me and cajole me into coming back and behaving myself.

Story #2: I tried out for College Jeopardy over the Spring Break of my freshman year in college. The tryouts were in Ann Arbor, so I decided to give it a shot. I went to Pierpont Commons and took the first level quiz. I don't know if they were actually basing anything on these answers, or if they were just to let people know what kind of questions they would be facing later. I must have passed, because I was given a time slot to return for the next part of the tryout.

When I came back, I was in a classroom full of student desk/chairs. Growing nervous, when asked if there were any questions, I asked if we were ineligible if we weren't U-M students. Everyone in the room turned to look at me like I was some kind of mutant. They said that it was fine as long as I was a college student somewhere.

We took the written test and got our results back almost immediately. The top scorers were asked to stay and advance to the next round. It could have been my imagination, but I felt like there was some "She isn't even from Michigan" grumbling going on when my name was called.

This round consisted of a quick-answer competition. We took turns coming up to the buzzer and practicing ringing in and answering. I did pretty well, but my problem came when they did a mock-interview thing.

Clearly they were looking for people with sparkling personalities who would look good and be interesting on TV. I, unfortunately, fell short there. I couldn't come up with any interesting mini-facts about myself (not that that stops anyone on TV - their factoids are usually so stupid and pointless that I want to hit them, like "My boyfriend calls me Boo" or some crap like that) and I was so nervous and tense it was making me nauseous. So, needless to say, I was not the one they called back. And the one who was called back got severely trounced, so it made me feel better.

Little tiny Albion did get its day to shine the next year, though, when my friend Kurt managed to make it to the show and twice build up a lead and lose it all in Final Jeopardy.

Story #3: When CKane and I were very new to Grenoble, we decided to go to the movies. Grenoble's Petit Bulletin listed the movie theatres in town and the films that were playing in them, as well as giving the cinemas' addresses, but we were new to town and didn't know where we were going.

In the Mood for Love was playing at Le Club, so we looked at our map to find the street that the cinema was on. Makes sense so far, right? We took the tram to that area of town, got off, and headed in the direction of the cinema.

Straight ahead of us, we saw a cinema so we went in. "Une place pour In the Mood for Love, s'il vous plaît," I asked.

He looked at us funny and informed me that they didn't have that movie.

"C'est le cinéma?" I asked. He confirmed that it was.

"Je voudrais un billet pour IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE," I tried repeating it, thinking that he hadn't understood my American pronunciation. He repeated that they didn't have that film. Cheryl and I looked at each other, confused. Maybe the movie was no longer playing here.

"Mais ici c'est un cinéma? Donc vous avez quel film?"

He leaned over the counter and over-enunciated the words for our obviously confused foreign ears, "Ici, SEX films. P0RN0?"

Our sheltered Albion eyes opened wide and we hightailed it out of there. Turns out Le Club was hidden away down the alleyway, not nearly as well-advertised. The big red X on the front probably should have clued us in.

I have recently had great demand for stories about my time in Grenoble. Not to mention demands, some of them quite violent, for actual content on this blog.

Once upon a time, I had planned on making a webpage bringing together pictures and stories from my year in Grenoble. Parts of this have been created and are actually online, although nothing on my site links to them because the project isn't finished after the two years since I returned. If it hasn't been finished in two years, it ain't gonna get done.

I've decided to kill two birds with one stone, so I will take down the Grenoble page altogether and turn it into a series of illustrated blog-posts instead.

I don't know why I felt I had to tell you that. Perhaps I'm warning you that I'm about to drag out a bunch of old stories. More likely, I'm trying to tell you that something is, indeed, forthcoming in order to cut down on all of the death threats from my readers, who have of late become my stare-at-the-screen-and-hit-reload-wondering-when-I'm-going-to-updaters. You know who you are.

Before I left for Grenoble, I would tell people I was going to live in France for a year, and they would inform me that I was going to return full of valuable knowledge about wine and cheese.

I did eat some cheese and drink some wine during the year, but not huge amounts of either. I never knew what I was eating or drinking because it was whatever was in the bottle or the cheese box at my host family's house, and it didn't make much difference to me. I found a cheese or two that I liked and stuck with them and refused all of my host family's attempts to get me drunk at family gatherings.

I came back to the United States and was grilled about my wine and cheese experiences by all the people who'd told me I'd be an expert. "I dunno," I'd say, "I like Double Crème. And Boursin. I think I tried some other stuff and it was okay. Wine? I had some rosé once that was okay. I guess I like that." I think they were disappointed.

When I went to Vichy, I assumed it would be the same. Fortunately, I was just on the edge of France's Cheese Plate (sort of like the American Bread Basket... I'm trying to be poetic here. Shut up) and in the company of someone who could teach me how to appreciate that fact: Stefan. Stefan was the German assistant at Presles, and was considered by many - French and foreign - to be more French than the French. He was fiercely regionalistic, believing that you should support your region first, then your country, and then start importing things. If you wanted to drive Stefan nuts, you could search out a bottle of Australian wine to bring to one of the Presles parties.

Upon being assigned to Presles, Stefan adopted l'Auvergne as his own. Stefan loved Auvergne and he loved food and his enthusiasm spread throughout the Vichy assistanat. We learned about all of the major cheeses of the area, as well as some of the minor ones. There was always a bout de St-Nectaire (a semi-hard cheese) in the cheese box for Stefan and we came to love Cantal (a cheddar-like cheese) and Bleu d'Auvergne (a blue cheese) as well.

I think Stefan distrusted me at the beginning of the year because I always refused wine. What kind of weird teetotaling American was I? Really, I didn't like the taste of wine, so I didn't take any. After a while, I realized I should at least try what they were serving, so I would take a little dribble. Stefan still looked askance. By doing this, I learned what I liked and what I didn't and built my way up to a whole glass (although no more, because Stefan would probably look even more askance at a weird American who could get drunk on a glass of wine).

Now that I'm back in the US, I miss having a bottle of wine open at all times. If I want some, I have to open it for myself or polish off a bottle split three ways. I miss Cantal and Bleu d'Auvergne, cheap and easy to find in the French supermarkets but rarer and more expensive here. I miss prepackaged shredded emmental. I'm still no expert, but I'm happy that I can finally enjoy wine and am willing to eat exotic and smelly cheeses. Danke schön, Stefan!

While reading The Professor (thanks for suggesting it, Katie), I was full of fantasies about updating it (à la Pride & Prejudice/Bridget Jones), writing a novel loosely based on it, or bringing it to the big screen. The book is about an Englishman who is unhappy in his work, so he goes off to Belgium and teaches English. I like it despite the protagonist's airs of grandeur, because there are parts that remind me of my experiences as a teaching assistant in France.

No man likes to acknowledge that he has made a mistake in the choice of his profession, and every man, worthy of the name, will row long against wind and tide before he allows himself to cry out, "I am baffled!" and submits to be floated passively back to land. (Chapter 4)

That reminds me of this post about never ever leaving a job.

Belgium! name unromantic and unpoetic, yet name that whenever uttered has in my ear a sound, in my heart an echo, such as no other assemblage of syllables, however sweet or classic, can produce. Belgium! I repeat the word, now as I sit alone near midnight. It stirs my world of the past like a summons to resurrection; the graves unclose, the dead are raised; thoughts, feelings, memories that slept, are seen by me ascending from the clods--haloed most of them--but while I gaze on their vapoury forms, and strive to ascertain definitely their outline, the sound which wakened them dies, and they sink, each and all, like a light wreath of mist, absorbed in the mould, recalled to urns, resealed in monuments. (Chapter 7)

Believe it or not, I do feel that way when I hear "Vichy" or "Grenoble" or sometimes even just "France". Maybe not to that extent, but I'm not a character in a Brontë novel, either.

"Would you object to taking the boys as they are, and testing their proficiency in English?"

The proposal was unexpected. I had thought I should have been allowed at least 3 days to prepare; but it is a bad omen to commence any career by hesitation, so I just stepped to the professor's desk near which we stood, and faced the circle of my pupils. I took a moment to collect my thoughts, and likewise to frame in French the sentence by which I proposed to open business. I made it as short as possible:--

"Messieurs, prenez vos livres de lecture."

"Anglais ou Francais, monsieur?" demanded a thickset, moon-faced young Flamand in a blouse. The answer was fortunately easy:--

"Anglais."

I determined to give myself as little trouble as possible in this lesson; it would not do yet to trust my unpractised tongue with the delivery of explanations; my accent and idiom would be too open to the criticisms of the young gentlemen before me, relative to whom I felt already it would be necessary at once to take up an advantageous position, and I proceeded to employ means accordingly. (Chapter 7)

Thrown into classes and frightened of your French being mocked by your students? Sound familiar?

She liked to learn, but hated to teach; her progress as a pupil depended upon herself, and I saw that on herself she could calculate with certainty; her success as a teacher rested partly, perhaps chiefly, upon the will of others; it cost her a most painful effort to enter into conflict with this foreign will, to endeavour to bend it into subjection to her own; for in what regarded people in general the action of her will was impeded by many scruples; it was as unembarrassed as strong where her own affairs were concerned, and to it she could at any time subject her inclination, if that inclination went counter to her convictions of right; yet when called upon to wrestle with the propensities, the habits, the faults of others, of children especially, who are deaf to reason, and, for the most part, insensate to persuasion, her will sometimes almost refused to act; then came in the sense of duty, and forced the reluctant will into operation. A wasteful expense of energy and labour was frequently the consequence; Frances toiled for and with her pupils like a drudge, but it was long ere her conscientious exertions were rewarded by anything like docility on their part, because they saw that they had power over her, inasmuch as by resisting her painful attempts to convince, persuade, control--by forcing her to the employment of coercive measures--they could inflict upon her exquisite suffering. Human beings--human children especially--seldom deny themselves the pleasure of exercising a power which they are conscious of possessing, even though that power consist only in a capacity to make others wretched; a pupil whose sensations are duller than those of his instructor, while his nerves are tougher and his bodily strength perhaps greater, has an immense advantage over that instructor, and he will generally use it relentlessly, because the very young, very healthy, very thoughtless, know neither how to sympathize nor how to spare. Frances, I fear, suffered much; a continual weight seemed to oppress her spirits[...] (Chapter 16)

Frances, another teacher at the school, takes English lessons with some of her students, just as I did in Spanish at Valéry Larbaud. She likes to learn, doesn't like to teach, and is intimidated by some of her students.

"Confound it! How doggedly self-approving the lad looks! I thought he was fit to die with shame, and there he sits grinning smiles, as good as to say, 'Let the world wag as it will, I've the philosopher's stone in my waist-coat pocket, and the elixir of life in my cupboard; I'm independent of both Fate and Fortune'" (Chapter 22)

Never mind. I'm just a nerd.

I am spending the weekend in Grenoble with my host family. Sophie slept in, so I snuck out to run errands and take advantage of the Big City. Everything is pretty much as it was, the mountains are still lovely, I got to do a bit of shopping, and I even had 54 minutes left on my cybercafé account. I find that my disdain for Americans In France extends to my fellow CUEF students now and that even when one of them was talking about Michigan, I couldn't bring myself to associate with them.

I don't miss things when they're gone. I miss them in advance and I miss them retroactively when I see them again. To some extent, it's the same with people.

Every time I come back to Grenoble, I find myself missing the Alps again. One of these times, I'm going to steal them in the dead of the night and take them with me.

I have a serious problem with people who are not named Gustav.

When I was in Grenoble, there was a Swede in my class named Gustav, who was very pale and blue-eyed with white-blond hair.

When I met this year's French assistant at Albion, I kept wanting to call him Gustav as well, because in addition to his fair hair and blue eyes, his name is Gauthier. Gustav, Gauthier. Close enough.

Now I have a student with a Scandinavian last name and pale hair and blue eyes, but who insists on being called Guillaume rather than Gustav.

What is with this barrage of G-named blond people? I suspect that they're all Gustavs in disguise, calling themselves by other similar names just to confuse me.

I found my papers from Grenoble while digging around under my bed. I looked at one of my assignments, which was to write an imaginary break-up letter, using various subjunctive-triggering phrases. This was the result:

Salut:
Comme dit Serge Gainsbourg : je suis venue te dire que je m'en vais. Tout sympa que tu as été, j'ai trouvé un nouveau petit ami. J'ai voulu t'écrire une lettre pour te dire tout ce que j'ai dû supporter pendant les quatre jours que nous avons passés ensemble, pour que tu puisses corriger les défauts de ton caractère afin de trouve une nouvelle petite amie.
Bien que j'aie dit le contraire, tes collections de timbres ne m'ont pas impressionnée. Si nombreux qu'ils soient, ce sont tous des timbres français que tu viens d'acheter à la Poste.
Je veux te dire aussi que tu es chauve. Tu as beau arranger n'importe comment les trois cheveux qui te restent, pourtant il n'y en a que trois.
Au risque de te donner une crise émotionnelle, je te dis que tu es trop sensible. Les femmes aiment bien un homme qui n'a pas peur de montrer ses émotions, toutefois il ne fallait pas pleurer quand nous sommes allés voir « La Tour Montparnasse infernale » ou le cirque. Où que nous soyons allés, tu as pleurniché et j'en ai marre ! Et je ne suis pas un mouchoir !
Quand bien même j'essayerais, je ne pourrais pas supporter tous ces défauts, donc je te quitte. Malgré tous tes problèmes, il me reste l'espoir qu'il y a quelqu'un dans le monde qui ne les remarquera pas et que tu trouveras l'amour quand même.

And in English:

Hi :
As Serge Gainsbourg said: I've come to tell you I'm leaving. As nice as you were, I've found a new boyfriend. I wanted to write you a letter to tell you everything I had to put up with during the four days we spent together, so that you can correct all of your character flaws and find a new girlfriend.
Although I said the opposite, your stamp collections didn't impress me. As numerous as they were, they were all French stamps that you had just bought at the post office.
I also want to tell you that you are bald. Go ahead and arrange however you like those three hairs you have left, but there are still only three.
At the risk of giving you an emotional breakdown, I will tell you that you are too sensitive. Women like a man who isn't afraid to show his feelings, but you really didn't need to cry when we saw "La Tour Montparnasse Infernale" [a very stupid comedy] or the circus. Wherever we went, you sniffled, and I've had enough of it! And I'm not a handkerchief!
As much as I could try, I would never be able to put up with your faults, so I'm leaving you. Despite all of these problems, I still have hope that there is someone in the world who won't notice them and you will find love anyway.

What a fun assignment. I should make my students do that in English.

8 days.

Last year in Grenoble I went out for a walk one day with nothing to do. Cheryl was out doing something else and I was bored so I wandered around downtown for a while and ended up on the quais of the Isère, just below the Bastille, one of the smaller of the mountains around Grenoble. So I decided to climb the Bastille. It's not like I needed climbing ropes or something - it's just a zig-zag walking path up the mountain. But since I hadn't really planned the expedition, I was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, carrying my backpack, and hadn't had anything to drink since my morning cup of tea. And yet, I set off up the mountain. It really wasn't that hard until I started getting out from under the tree cover. By the time I reached the last set of steps to get to the top, I had to sit down because I was seeing stars. Then I had to scramble around and find myself something to drink so I didn't die of dehydration or heat stroke or stupidity or being out of shape or whatever it was that was killing me.

Climbing the Bastille is a lot more fun when you have someone with you and when you're prepared for it, as I found out this summer when I climbed it with my dad and a bottle of water on our summer trip to England and France.

17 days on the 17th. Huh.

When we went to visit Denis and Sophie's cousin and her kids in St-Etienne, the six-year-old cousin Charles latched on to me. It was interesting because he'd seen me about a month before and had told me that his cousins were beautiful but I was moche. Well, little Charles. I was bored and lonely and bombarded with French. We can't all be looking our best under these circumstances. Poo on you.

But on this visit, he followed me all over the place and wanted to sit next to me at dinner, sit on my lap, and hold my hand when we went on walks. Little flirt. I shudder to think what he's going to be like when he gets older.

22 days.

Over my February vacation last year, I was reading some French book and sitting by the bus stop to get the bus back to Nîmes and various people began to join me. Quite a few of them spoke English, but I was lost in my book and don't normally talk to strangers, anyway. I got onto the bus and sat behind two Americans. They were talking amongst themselves and I wasn't really paying attention, but I caught words here and there. Then one of them turned around and said, "Mademoiselle, vous habitez ici?" ("Miss, do you live here?") Suddenly I put together all of the snippets of their conversation that I'd overheard and realized that they were talking about me (and trying to figure out how old I was) and thought I was French. "Non," I replied, wondering if I should 'fess up. "Si ça ne vous dérange pas, vous habitez où?" ("If you don't mind me asking, where do you live?") I thought about saying "Grenoble" and leading them on, but I figured I might as well be honest (and get the opportunity to see how they'd react!) So I took a deep breath and admitted "Michigan," which made one of them collapse behind the seat in embarrassment. But they were quite nice and sweet and we chatted all the way back to Nîmes.

Where are you guys? They were from California somewhere.

26 days.

Last year, my favorite professor was Dominique. He was our main (sort of "homeroom") teacher in our three-a-week language classes. He had a very entertaining and mimicable way of talking and I miss him just thinking about it. He always went around the room to get answers, so everyone got a chance to or was forced to speak. On the last day of class, we bought him a card and a nice pen and he took us all down to the cafeteria for coffee and tea and to exchange addresses with everyone.

We were all very sad when we learned, at the end of the semester, that we would have a different teacher for the language classes in the spring, because the school liked to switch the levels that they were teaching at. Right now, I can't even remember our second semester teacher's name, but she was nothing near as good as Dominique, and those of us who had been around for the first semester constantly commented to each other about that. There were days when I just wouldn't say anything in class. I think that first semester, most of my learning was in the classroom but second semester, I was doing it all at home.

31 days.

The first time I ever had peach iced tea was sitting out in the back yard chatting with Denis. We had run out of Coke, so he got me a peach iced tea instead. I knew I didn't like iced tea, but I was thirsty and a year abroad is all about trying new things. I'm glad I did. I believe it was a Nestea.

They don't seem to have peach Nestea anywhere around here. Peach Nestea is pretty impossible to find, at least where I've been shopping. It's also hard to find peach Lipton except by the bottle. I would like to buy more than one bottle at a time, please. Do you have a case or something? The only place I've been able to find peach Lipton is Albion's fast-food joint, the Eat Shop. Not even in Meijers, just in the Eat Shop. It's odd how things will turn up in one place you wouldn't expect and nowhere else. Right now I am enjoying a peach Snapple, though less than I would a Nestea or Lipton. It's sweeter than the others.

So there you go. Blogged about tea and a graduation memory. Take that, two birds! *THWACK!*

35 days.

One of the last things I did, between my final exams and flying home from Grenoble was to make cookies with Sophie. It was something we'd talked about all year, but we never had all of the ingredients. So one day in May, we finally sat down and made them. It was interesting because we had the directions in English and in cups and teaspoons. We had the right measuring utensils, because the Morins had had so many Americans before. We had alsatian raising powder, which was something akin to baking powder or soda or something. We had some flour, but I don't think it was the same kind we use in the US. But we mixed everything together. We heated the oven, but it was hard to correspond the 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, etc. settings on the oven to Fahrenheit degrees. So we guessed that we wanted it somewhere around 6. We cooked about 5 trays full of cookies and never managed to get the temperature quite right. We'd put it up to 7 and they'd burn, we'd put it down to 5 and they'd be flat. But once we fed all of the burnt ones to Denis, our cookies were quite yummy and we gobbled them up.

39 days till you can sing this to me.

When she visited Grenoble in October of last year, Dr Guenin-Lelle gave us a few things to give to Pénélope, our former Native Speaker, when we saw her. Well, it took a few months, but I finally managed to pay Penny a visit in March. I stayed with her in her parents' home in Aix-les-Bains and she took me to spend the day in Annecy, drive around the lakes of the region and also on a side trip to Chambéry.

Pénélope's family was extremely kind and hospitable to me. Their house is quite modern and amazing. I stayed in her brother's room, since he was away at art school in Paris. The room was bright, beautiful, and full of his art.

Annecy, although not quite so much in March, is supposed to have such beautiful flowers that won competitions for the most flowered town in France until it was finally disqualified from continuing in the competition. It, like several other towns in France, calls itself a "little Venice" because it has canals and water running throughout.

I also got to see the largest natural lake in France and experience flooding in Savoie. The entire country was having problems with flooding, but it was less evident in Grenoble, which is behind a big dam. Near Lake Bourget, the water was nearly covering the road and in Annecy, it was flowing quickly and threatening to overflow the canals.

48 days.

Over Thanksgiving weekend last year, Jillian, Erin and their friend Stephanie came from Venice to visit me in Grenoble and go up to Paris. The whole Grenoble-finding-a-place-to-stay-during-a-Socialist-convention story is one for another time. But when we went to Paris, we stayed in a hostel. The desk clerk's name was Frédéric. Actually, it wasn't. It could have been, but we never asked. We just made it up.

The guy ahead of us in line was very annoying and didn't pay any attention to what Frédéric was saying. We smiled knowingly at him and waited patiently. Then he serviced served us. We had to give him our names and dates of birth and such. The dates gave the Venetians a chance to practice their newly-learned French numbers, which seemed to impress and amuse Frédéric. He pointed out that he and Jillian were born on the same day - 17 March 1980.

On the elevator, on the way up to our room, we fought over who was going to win him and I announced that I was, due to my superior French-language skills. Of course, Jillian had the whole soul-mates thing going on. By the time we came down, almost brave enough to ask him to come to dinner with us, he was gone. Sigh.

53 days.

Junior year, I had nowhere to go for my Spring Break. I didn't have any friends who were close enough to travel with. Most of my friends were the European students on a shoestring budget who could travel Europe whenever they wanted, rather than the Americans who were travelling all over the place while they had the opportunity and occasionally coming to class.

So I thought I was going to spend Spring Break alone and friendless, but my host family invited me along on their Spring Break trip and it ended up being an amazing experience. We spent several days at Francoise's brother's house and met all of the cousins, who were all great fun. We went to a party where Sophie and I were bored out of our minds and Denis was drunk out of his. We had a water fight, went for walks and bike rides, had lots and lots of tea, played board games, and generally amused ourselves.

Then for the rest of the break, we went to a former abbey near Dijon, which has been fixed up as a really nice hotel. We were celebrating Easter and BonPapa's 90th birthday. I met all the rest of the family that I hadn't already met, hid Easter eggs, went on a side-trip to Dijon, and had some great food. It was nice to be in such a large family with so many cousins of overlapping ages.

I'm thinking of the only Thanksgiving that really stands out as memorable. The others, in the same locations and with the same people, all sort of blend together. But last year's Thanksgiving dashes all over Grenoble in the rain and eventual Thanksgiving a la francaise were... quite different. Don't know if I'd say better, exactly, but different.

André the Giant was born in Grenoble. I didn't even realize he was French. He didn't sound very French, did he? Also, Greer Garson went to the Université de Grenoble. IMDb is such a useful tool. If you have never been there, I COMMAND YOU TO GO.

Un couple épatant - Cavale - Après la vie
I don't know how I find these things, but here's a trilogy of films that were filmed in Grenoble this year, including the time that we were visiting there this summer. Now I don't want to go jumping to conclusions or anything, but there seemed to be a lot of cinema-esque lighting nonsense going on down the street from our hotel... Well, even if I didn't almost see this filming, it's exciting to see recognizable scenery from Grenoble! Sigh...

I HATE DUBBED MOVIES. I need to read boxes more carefully. That said, I put up with the dubbing for the whole movie and quite enjoyed Les Rivières pourpres. Lots of fun and action and thrills and the library scenes filmed in a building on Place Verdun in Grenoble that I passed every day and also HAVE BEEN INSIDE. Pardon me, I'm easily impressed.

Vincent Cassel's English dubbing of his own part was very amoosing, as I have no idea where he learned English, but it might have been inner-city NYC. Jean Reno is divine and I think Vincent is only going to get more attractive with age - mrrrrowwwrr. Wait, I'm lying, because he was not at all attractive in Le Pacte des loups. I think he needs fluffy hair. If they'd been speaking French, they would have been even better.